Date: Sun, 6 Oct 2013 20:18:18 -0700 (PDT)
From: John Gerald <connectwriter@yahoo.com>
Subject: Peter's Story 26

Thanks for reading – thoughts and comments are always welcome!


Marty often remembered the comment that Jeremy had later made about Peter
looking like a `sausage' that cold winter day when he was dressed to leave
Jeremy's apartment, completely bundled up by Marty in his parka and scarf
before he was allowed to return to the cold outdoors. He silently laughed
about it to himself as he was lying in bed that night, and had to admit
that Jeremy was right. Peter did look like a sausage. Or a few other
things.

Jeremy's sense of humor seemed to serve him well. It took a few weeks, but
gradually his life returned to normal. Not to say simple or without other
problems. But he had gotten his footing again, jumped back into the dating
scene and had clearly come out of the experience with a better
understanding of himself and what he wanted in his relationships.

These were just some of the thoughts going through Marty's mind as he lied
in bed besides his boy. Unable to sleep, his thoughts careened back and
forth, on one hand memories from the past few years here at school and on
the other thoughts about the future and what it held for Peter and for them
both.

When he remembered how Peter looked that day at Jeremy's he sometimes
reproached himself about how he acted, thinking that maybe he should give
Peter more space on these things. Ease up. Let him take care of himself
more.  But he also remembered back to their first season on the pitch, when
Peter would fight his demands to take a rest. He always resisted initially
but never fought too hard and always gave in at the end. All Marty could do
was to take those reactions as some kind of sign that he was doing the
right thing by both of them.

And now, feeling Peter once again pushing his head into his chest, trying
to get closer, closer, closer: he didn't have any doubt that he was on the
right course. As usual, he reached over and stroked Peter's back, now
knowing just the right amount of pressure to apply between the shoulder
blades to calm him down without waking him up.

"Are you OK?" he whispered, knowing that Peter couldn't hear him, but still
asking. The breathing was the slightly-elevated type that he expected
during these episodes. He was still asleep, but probably dreaming
intensely.

What drove this behavior was clear. He knew that Peter depended on him,
that they depended on each other, of course. But `depend' meant one thing
while they were in school and only had their coursework and daily living
needs to worry about.

But suddenly the responsibility beyond that really hit him. Peter DOES need
him. He needed him that Christmas night when he fought his pneumonia, and
all those times on the pitch. And he would need him not just now during
school, but in the future, way into the future.

And not just in the sense of romance and emotion, but in the real
bread-and-butter needs that would help him to live his life. They had
decided that Peter would be a stay-at-home dad, so he would have no
income. And their kids too, they would need to be taken care of and
provided for and they would all depend on Marty to carry the burden.

He didn't have any problem agreeing to this when they came up with the
plan. In fact, he was probably the biggest advocate for Peter being a
stay-at-home Dad, like his Dad had (mostly) done. But he didn't think a lot
about how he'd actually do this. The theory sounded attractive, along with
the roles. And while he pondered the logistics of what he would do to
support them, it didn't have a sense of urgency to it, so he thought he
could just continue to ruminate and theorize about possibilities.

But now, this night, the weight of what this really meant hit him like an
avalanche. "How will I do this?" he asked himself. So much responsibility.
Peter. Kids. Maybe Peter's dads someday. That night, lying next to Peter
and feeling and smelling him so close, it seemed overwhelming.

He drew a deep breath and lay there nervously, his jaw clenched. And then
he felt Peter nudge into him again, but this time very gently, like he was
just checking to see if Marty was there.

His eyes went down to his boy as he seemed to be getting some peace. The
shallow breaths belied the power the he had and all that he had done for
him. The fears, the panic attacks that had tormented Marty himself for so
long seemed to have slowly evaporated over time. He almost couldn't
remember why he was almost always on top when they had sex. Peter continued
to insist on it, but he asked himself now – `what for?'

Suddenly, like when it had came on, the panic just disappeared. The nervous
anticipation didn't leave, and he was glad of that. It helped to drive
him. But there was no longer the sense that events and circumstances might
block his path, like they threatened to before he met Peter. He could
control the future and it wouldn't control him.

After that night, when all these thoughts raced through his head, he
focused all of his energies on the career tasks that were ahead. Bik and
Robert were more than generous with their counsel in helping him to take
his and Peter's overall goals and create a plan to realize them. They had
talked about Marty going to business school to prepare for some kind of
career in finance, while Peter would support them with modeling (as long as
his looks stayed `fresh' he liked to joke.) Then it would be Marty's turn
to step into the `real world' and make a living for them both and the
family that they would create.

Bik was especially helpful. His kids had the usual childhood problems
growing up, but with Laura's illness, the challenges and burdens were
magnified. It took her almost a year for her to recover from the birth of
the twins and the emotional toll, not to mention financial, could be seen
in the dark circles that had appeared around his eyes. But he never let his
spirit flag.

"Two things," Bik told him once on during a long phone call that they had
about his career. "You've got to be out there all time, Marty. You always
need to be `on,' dealing with someone, figuring something out. Coming up
with a solution to something. And hoping for some luck, too. Because no
matter how hard you work, sometimes circumstances can kill you. So give
yourself a lot of opportunities and chances."

His other point?

"You need to be social. Meet people, get to know them, share things with
them besides work," he said. "On its face that doesn't seem like a bad
thing. `Hey, what's wrong with getting to know people?'"

"We'll, it takes time, and not just during the day. A few people realize
that you have family responsibilities and know the limits of how far they
can push. They want to know you so that they can build trust, but they
don't want or need spend every waking hour with you to achieve that."

"For better or worse, however, the others need stroking and attention and
want to spend lots of time with you, and a good share of that in bars. I
don't get it, frankly. They work with you all day sometimes, so they know
who you are, plus they have families of their own. But for lack of a better
word, they need to be `stroked' and so take a lot of personal time in terms
of care and feeding. I hate it, frankly, especially the time spent in
bars," he said, frustration apparent in his voice. "I like a good drink as
much as the next guy, but my family comes first and every evening I spend
with these people is an evening away from my kids and Laura and everyone
else."

"I never appreciated until then how much effort my Pop and Dad made to be
home in the evening. And even when they couldn't be, which seemed rare,
they always called. And jeeze, as a kid, it felt kind of cool to get a
phone call from anyone," he said with a smile.

"But you know what? I know why I'm doing this. And it's for the same reason
that you'll be doing it, he said. "There is a certain rush in the
give-and-take of finance, it's an interesting system. But I couldn't never
put this much energy into it if it wasn't for the people who depend on me."

"There are folks whose entire lives are about the job. They just want to
pile up money and cars and houses and titles and they'll do anything to get
all that stuff. Well, that's probably enough for them but it would never be
enough for me. I see how it can provide for the kids and give them
opportunities and help me... um...take care of Laura, too," he added, her
health an unrelenting concern with him. "But it doesn't do anything more
than that."

					***

He looked down again at Peter and knew what he was doing and why he was
doing it, too. Marty had set himself the goal of being as thrifty as
possible while he was in school so that when he graduated they would have a
little debt as possible.  He knew that Peter felt pressure too, and the he
would do everything he could to prepare for the future in the same way.

And prepare he did. To get himself in shape for this blitz of work, Peter
had hit the gym hard during the past fall. Where he was just trying to stay
healthy with his earlier regimen, doing it more for health maintenance than
anything else, he now had mixed in a financial goal.

"I need to take this whole modeling thing more seriously, at least while
you're in grad school. It's not a career choice, just a practical way to
make more money than your typical recent liberal arts graduate," he said as
they were eating breakfast one day at the beginning of the fall semester.

"Pete, you don't need to push yourself too hard at it," Marty protested at
the time. "I mean, you do pretty well just as you are, no?"

"I can kind of float by the way I am now. But to get the really good,
high-paying gigs, I've got to get really buff. Not big, I mean, I'm not
that kind of morph, as it were," he said, self-consciously chuckling to add
some humor as Marty began to get a very serious look in his eyes. "But a
bit more, as they say `cut,' than I am now."

"Has Rick egged you on about this, stepping up the workouts, didn't he?"
came Marty's slightly skeptical response.

"Well...yeah, he's all for it, of course. I know that he just sees dollar
signs and all." Peter then looked away, into the distance for a
moment. "And I guess that I do, too."

"He probably hinted at maybe taking out the hearing aid, too, huh?" Marty
added.

"Yea," Peter said. "And I have to say, for a moment, I wasn't so sure about
giving up the hearing aid. I mean, this is kind of make-or-break for us,
you know? We're really going to need the money."

`That asshole!' Marty thought to himself. That his agent would manipulate
Peter's feelings for his family in order to improve his `product' made him
want to retch. But he knew that Peter's intentions were sincere so had to
handle it carefully.

Marty put down his fork and reached his hand over to turn Peter's head
toward the table again. "We aren't at that place yet, and I hope we never
will be. We don't need it that much, Pete. We can make it work without you
needing to do that."

Peter head shook up and down, clearly almost ashamed of what he had said.

Dragging this thumb softly across Peter's cheek, Marty said, "We'll make
it. It will be tough, but I know that we'll still do OK."

He knew how much this point of pride about his hearing had meant to Peter
in the years he had known him, so to hear him say what he did made the
seriousness of the situation even more clear. That's one of the first
things that got him thinking about how difficult real life, not college,
was going to be.

						***

It wasn't as if they were the only ones contemplating life after college
either. Wei, Jeremy, and almost all their other buddies were probing the
future, too. All but Jeff.

"Jeeze, I don't see what the big deal is," he said to Peter one day at
lunch. "I mean, I know my old man has a lot of dough and all, maybe that's
why I don't care. He and my mom don't put any pressure on me at all." He
took a small bite from the corner of his pastrami sandwich. As was usual
with him, he bought lots of food, only nibbled at most of it, and left the
rest on the plate.

"So you're going to do nothing? I mean, you're just going to sit around on
your computer cruising porn sites for the rest of your life, are you?"
Peter asked, not looking up from his own plate of food.

"Go ahead, rub it in, Kovar. You go home every night and get fucked by your
full-time stud service. Meanwhile, mere mortals like me have to work for
it," he said as he sniffed.

Peter smirked in response. It was always hard to keep this guy on topic, as
Jeff especially liked to goad Peter about his relationship. But now he just
brushed it off. At one time, he thought that Jeff flitted easily from one
subject to the other because of his brilliance and hyperactive mind, until
Jeremy suggested to him that it was more likely because of drugs.

"Well, back to you, Jeff. What are you going to do?"

Looking out over the large dining room filled with students, he focused on
no one in particular. "Hmmm...I don't know. Probably go to Ibiza for a
while, chill there. Maybe grad school down the line, who knows. I could
teach. That might be interesting, all those hot lads who'll do anything to
get a good mark."

"You'd be a good teacher," Peter said. "Your writing style is great, I have
to say, and you're the best editor that I know. You can really pick apart a
sentence. Did you ever think of stuff like that, I mean, to do
professionally," he asked, holding his sandwich in his hand as he looked
back at him.

"But then I'd have to grade the ugly ones, too," Jeff whined, taking a big
swig from his water before turning his attention to a guy walking by.

"Well... hello there!" he muttered, leering at the tall, blond jock
carrying his tray past their table, and ignoring Peter. "Didn't I just see
you in the weight room," he continued, still under his breath but loud
enough for Peter to hear.

But Peter just sighed. It was like a thousand other conversations between
them during the past year which consistently decayed into the fantasies of
Jeff's erotic imagination.

It wasn't always quite this bad, but it had gotten worse when they all
became seniors. Yet it wouldn't do any good to be judgmental. Jeff could
never land these fantasy guys he worshiped and the ones he could get out
for an evening, or a night, never went beyond one date. It didn't do any
good to confront him about the drugs. Peter had tried it once and it almost
ruptured their friendship. There was nothing he could do but maybe lead by
example.

"So is that what it's like with your boy?" Jeff said, turning back to Peter
with a hungry grin. "You get to sleep with a stud like that lying next to
you every night! What's it like?"

He had heard that before, too. Many times.

"Why don't you just finish your sandwich? You're looking thin, Jeff," he
replied, taking a bite of his own.

"Oh, the thinness... that's my ...medication you know," Jeff replied.

Peter raised his head back up. "Yes, I think it is, Jeffers," he
replied. "It's definitely the meds."

"But you aren't on the same meds. Oh no! I have to say, Kovar, You are
looking pretty buff these days. You've always been a kind of lean fella,
but something is different now. Jeeze, I can even see little veins in those
biceps of yours!"

Peter immediately pulled down his sleeves. He'd never thought twice about
it that day, he knew it was going to be a hot and humid when he left in the
morning and so he threw on one of his lightest t-shirt.

"Oh that. It's just for work. I'll never get big, but I'm trying to give
myself a bit more versatility for these modeling gigs."

"Versatile? I'll say. Is that what your boyfriend says – `Versatile?'"

"Ha-ha," Peter replied, his voice betraying a slight annoyance with the
continued sexual innuendo.

"Come on, Kovar. Make a muscle for me. Let's see what all this
`versatility' has been doing for you."

Peter smirked. "Sorry, no demonstrations here," he replied as he took
another bite of his sandwich, conspicuously chewing it, practically with
his mouth open, while looking straight at Jeff.

"Aw, come on," Jeff continued. "I never thought of you as some kind of gym
rat, but I know that you'll do anything for your boy. So let's see it." He
kept up the badgering until Peter finally gave up and rolled his eyes.

He drew his right arm across his chest and pulled the left sleeve up a
slight amount to reveal just enough to show what it looked like, but no
more. He then put his hand behind his head, like he was going to scratch
the back of his head, and flexed the muscle. It was an angle that was only
visible to Jeff.

"Holy crap!' Jeff cried out, just about loud enough for the people around
him to hear. "It really is a Bi-Cep," he said, emphasizing the two
syllables. "You can see both friggin' heads, man. You really do have those
baseball biceps!" His eyes locked hungrily on Peter's flex. "Wow, even a
twig like you can do it."

Mortified by the attention that Jeff was calling to their table, he was
about to roll his sleeve back down when Jeff made a motion with his hand to
stop.

"Wait a sec, there," Jeff commanded as he leaned forward across the
table. "Keep flexing for a second," he said as he closely examined the
flexed muscle. "Is that a bruise there? Has your boy been beating you? Oh,
no, he hasn't..." Jeff said, his voice raising in anticipation.

"It'a fuckin' sucker bite – right on top of that damn muscle!" he said,
laughing. He pulled back so fast in his chair that he almost toppled over.

Peter yanked down his sleeve and quickly put his hands back around his
sandwich. He jumped up for a second as it looked like Jeff really was about
to fall out of his chair, though he thought that it wouldn't have
necessarily been a bad time for an accident. The thought even crossed his
mind to give Jeff a push. Anything to divert attention from the scene that
he was making.

"Can I feel `em, maybe kiss `em? Make `em feel better?" Jeff asked between
laughs, "I promise I won't leave any teeth marks."

"No!" Peter shot back, focusing on his meal. He took another bite and
looked straight ahead, hoping that no one around them noticed.

"So cute. So modest," Jeff teased again. "I'll bet your boyfriend likes
those. I'll bet he sucks and licks them every night. Does he ask you to
flex them for him before he licks?"

"Here," Peter said as he pushed the other half of his sandwich at
Jeff. "stick this in your mouth before I stick something else in there."

"You promise?" Jeff replied, tracing his tongue around his lips.

      ***

"I'm going over to pick up some food from Aunt Hanna's. I'll be back about
in about an hour or so. Don't wait up if you're tired, OK?" Peter said as
he put on his winter jacket.

"OK," Marty responded from their upstairs room. "You have a scarf on?"

"Um...lets' see," he replied, searching his down parka.

"Wear a scarf!"

"Oh, OK, got it!" he said as he unwound it from the large front
pocket. "See ya in a few minutes," he called back up the stairs before
heading through the kitchen and out the back door. "You hear that, Dad,
Pop," he called out to the living room before heading out the door.

"We heard, Peter, thanks," his Pop replied as he looked up briefly from his
magazine.

Marty looked in the mirror. "Now or never," he said to himself.

Brad was sitting in the modern overstuffed chair, while Mike was lying on
the couch, his head on a pillow near the armrest, his right hand scrolling
through his messages on his phone while his left hand was propped behind
his head. They both greeted Marty has he came and sat down but continued
what they were doing.

Marty took the empty chair next to Brad and cleared his throat. Brad was
the first one to notice. "Are you OK?" he asked, glancing over.

"Um... yea," I'm fine, Marty replied. "But, um... if you both have a second
there's something that I need to talk to you about."

They both immediately raised their heads from what they were doing, with
his Pop sitting up straight on the couch. "Is everything OK," Brad asked,
his eyes focused on Marty as he nervously adjusted himself in the chair.

"Yes, yes, everything is OK. I mean everything is great, really. It is...I
just want to say something, or, um... ask something." He was rubbing his
hands against each other, a very unusual thing for him that seemed to belie
his effort to calm himself down.

"You sure?" Brad asked, he placed the magazine on the coffee table next to
him. Their now rapt attention made Marty even more nervous.

"Yes, it's OK. Like I said, it's all... really good. But I need to ask you
both something."

"Go ahead, Marty. Whatever you need, we'll try to help."

"Thanks, but it's not a need. Well, it is, but it's not...well..."

Brad smiled. He was perplexed, but sensed that at least there wasn't some
major problem. At least he hoped that there wasn't. "Go ahead Marty. We're
here to listen."

"OK...well... here goes..." He took a deep breath before he started.

"You know, Peter and I have been together for a couple of years now. It's
been wonderful and great and all that. We've talked about the future and
having kids, where we'll live and all that stuff. It really couldn't be
better. I'm very happy, and I think he is too."

"He is happy, all those things, Marty. We know more than anyone how much
you've done for Peter," Brad said.

"Well...we're in school in Massachusetts, where same-sex couples can be
married... and...well... I know I don't need to ask you if I can marry
Peter, but I do want your blessing when I do. Because I want to ask him to
marry me."

Brad and Mike both looked at each other, smiling...and then blinking
rapidly.

"He's so special. I feel so lucky. So lucky..." his voice trailed off.

Before he could say anything else, he found himself in a hug from Brad. "He
will be thrilled, Marty," he whispered in his ear.

Mike then traded places with him and gave Marty a kiss on the cheek and the
forehead. "You have our blessing. A thousand times," he said as he squeezed
his shoulder.

"When are you going to pop the question?" Brad asked.

"I told him I wanted to take him out for dinner tomorrow night, just the
two of us, maybe start our own little tradition. Then, if he says yes..."

"He'll say yes!" they both interjected.

Marty chuckled.  "...well, if he says yes, then I think we'll do it when
you're all up for graduation, just before or after, whatever he'd like. I
just want to marry him," he said, with the biggest smile on his face the
either of them had ever seen.

						***

"I don't see you dressed up like this very often. You look very
distinguished," Peter said as he reached over and adjusted the knot on
Marty's navy blue tie.

"You remember this tie, right?" he replied.

"Oh, yeah. I bought it for you last year. I thought you might need
something for meetings or special events," he replied. "It goes nice with
your eyes and hair," Peter said as he reached up and brushed a few strands
off of Marty's forehead.

"I hope the food is good enough for all the dressing up. Are you sure you
want to do this? I mean, gosh, the only time I ever wear a suit is if I'm
paid to walk a runway or have my picture taken in it," he teased. "And you
only seem to wear them when you're trying to get paid for it, like for a
scholarship or job interview."

The big smile and laugh that Peter got in return was not exactly a direct
answer to his question, but with a face like his, `who cares' he thought to
himself. `If he wanted to start a tradition of a nice formal dinner-for-two
at the holidays, then why not?'

Though he was usually an informal dresser, Marty was always very neat and
tidy even with his t-shirts and jeans, and it was the same way with his
sport jacket and slacks. And he seemed especially fastidious today. He had
made sure that both of them were wearing clothes fresh from the cleaners,
and had even bought Peter and himself boutonnieres.

Marty always seemed to have some kind of sentimental attachment to the
Holidays, which didn't seem all that unusual to Peter. Lots of people
do. Maybe he had some experiences with his Dad that made it a good time for
him, or maybe with Angela, or perhaps his first Christmas with Peter's
family. But since that was when Peter got pneumonia, he wasn't quite sure
how that one fit in.

But the way Marty looked, heck, he wouldn't mind doing this more often, he
thought. The aqua-colored tie, with flecks of yellow against the white
shirt and dark blue suit looked great on him. He still couldn't understand
what people like Jeff thought when they described his face as `simple.' So
what if he didn't have Peter's own angular jaw. Marty's look was much
softer, his whole face rounded and curvy, not like his own lean edges. But
as far as Peter was concerned he was perfect.

Rubbing the back of his hand instinctively against Marty's chin, he
couldn't detect any of the stubble the he usually felt at night. "Did you
just shave?" he asked.

"Yeah, I thought I'd do it again, just so I wouldn't have any 5'o'clock
shadow, at least not tonight."

"I kind of like that...It's hot, you know. Very virile that little 5'oclock
shadow that you get. It means you've got active hormones."

Marty rolled his eyes and smiled as he reached up and gripped Peter's wrist
as he continued to stroke his face. "We can discuss that later," he
teased. "But we'd better get going soon. The reservation is for 8:00 and
it's already 7:30 and we have to get our coats and drive and park and all
that stuff."

`He's certainly being organized tonight,' Peter thought to himself. `Doing
this must be really important to him.' He quickly gathered their coats and
gloves and made sure that he was one step ahead of him in preparing to
leave.

						***

"Can you hear me OK, Pete?" Marty asked. When they had arrived almost two
hours ago, the restaurant was practically empty, but in the meantime every
table had become filled and there was a continuous low murmur filling the
air.

"Pretty, well, I think. Lucky this is a small table and we can be
close. And there's not a lot of noise in this corner here, so that helps."

"Good. I had been by here before and really wanted one of these two-person
window tables and not be out in the middle of the room. I thought this
little alcove would work well for us."

"Yea, it's a nice seat. It's cool looking out at the snow on the trees in
the little courtyard, with all the teeny lights," he said, his hand
supporting his chin as he stared outside.

"I really like being here with you. It's perfect, thanks for thinking of
it," Peter said.

"Good. I'm really glad you like it."

Peter turned his head toward him. "I do. A lot. But we don't `have to have
fancy meals, you know. We could do this together anyplace, even at
home. It's kind of nice looking into the backyard there, too, especially
when it's snowing."

"I know," Marty replied, smiling shyly back at him. "But I wanted this to
be special."

"Special?"

"Uh huh," Marty replied. "Special."

Peter looked at him. "So what was the real reason you got me out here?"

Marty was silent for a moment before he spoke.

"I need to ask you something, Pete," he said firmly, but couldn't quite
bring himself to look straight at him.

Peter sat up in his chair. "Is everything OK? Is Angie OK? Is anything
wrong?"

Marty could see he had gotten him worried. "No, no! Everything is OK,
Pete. It's OK... I mean, it's even better than OK." He tried to say it with
confidence, but his voice was clearly shaking.

"What do you mean? Are you sure that you're OK."

Marty cleared his throat, but for a moment couldn't speak.

"You OK?" Pete asked again, reaching over and squeezing Marty's hands,
which he had nervously folded in front of himself and, unusually for Marty,
had become very sweaty.

Instinctively he took Peter's hand in his, gave them a squeeze, then gently
held them there.

"Yeah...I'm OK. It's just...well...we've spent a lot of the last year
making plans for the future, what we'd be doing for the next year, how
we'll work, share things, where we'll live, raise kids, everything
important. It's really good."

"I agree. It's been good, babe, real good. So what else is there?"

"Well...I've been thinking...you know we can just keep going on what we're
doing, we don't need to do this, of course. It won't make a big difference,
but..."

"But what?" Peter asked again. He could now feel Marty's hands slightly
trembling.

Marty gave Peter's hands a tight squeeze, releasing some of the pressure
but still keeping their hands together. "When we're back in Massachusetts I
was wondering...um...if you'd like to be married there.  I mean, um...would
you...uh...marry me?

Peter stared back at him blankly.

"Pete?" Marty asked, his hands now completely lubricated with sweat as he
continued the gentle grip on Peter's hands.

Peter's mouth opened, but no sound came out. But Marty felt him squeeze his
hand. Hard.

"Are you OK?"

There was still no speaking. Releasing their hands as he rose up out of his
seat, Peter stepped to the other side, pulled Marty up from this chair and
wrapped his arms around back, joining their bodies together and holding
them in a tight embrace.

"Yes, I will marry you." he whispered in Marty's ear as he felt a firm tug
from the arms that were now wrapped around him.

						***

"Boy, we could have it when everyone is up for graduation. Maybe have it in
the Chapel? I'd really like that. And the kids, they would have a
ball. We'd have a reception and..."

It was great to hear Peter's excitement as they waited for dessert. It was
all he hoped it would be and more. He noted that Peter could hardly contain
himself, and went on and on about the different things they could do, when
they would do them, who all would be there. The enthusiasm was wonderful.

But Marty could sense something else was starting to happen, something that
had happened once before with Peter when he got excited.

Just that moment, Peter stopped talking and just stared blankly at
Marty. He was struggling with something but couldn't move. In an instant
Marty knew what it was.

He couldn't breathe.

His heavy wooden chair fell with a thud onto the carpeted floor as Marty
launched himself toward the other side of the table. He would have
regretted the commotion, if he even realized it. But all he could see was
Peter's desperate attempts to get air.

The only thing he thought he could do was what he had done the only time
this had ever happened, when they first really discovered each other. He
knelt down on one knee next to him, and with his left hand softly stroking
Peter's knee, he used his right to do the same to his back.

Peter couldn't move his body, but reached down and desperately clawed at
Marty's arm. His fingers were digging in with desperation, but Marty didn't
flinch and just let him grab.

"Pete...easy... breathe easy...e-a-s-y..." he tried to say slowly, speaking
directly into Peter's ear. His own concern was rapidly mounting as Peter
seemed to now be taking breaths but much too rapidly to seem natural. They
were more like gasps.

"I'm here, Pete. Don't worry. I'm here...I'm not going anywhere," he
said. The grip on his arm was so strong he couldn't slide it anymore, but
he still tried to at least rhythmically squeeze Peter's thigh in spite of
the fingers digging through the shirt and into his skin.

"Easy...easy...,' he kept repeating..."

He didn't seem to be getting worse, but his breathing didn't slow down,
either. In spite of his own panic, he tried to maintain a steady voice.

"You'll be OK...just try to slow down just a bit...you'll do OK...I'm here,
don't worry."

After what felt like forever, he could feel Peter's breathing slowing
down. It wasn't much, but as he continued to coax and stroke him, Peter
seemed to be slowing down and getting a bit more control. And his grip was
easing too, though Marty couldn't tell if that was from relaxation on
Peter's part or numbness on his own.

Just when he thought that Peter's breathing had returned to normal he felt
Peter's forehead knock against his own, where it stayed and rested, their
breaths now mixing together. And his weight too, as it felt like he was
supporting almost all of Peter's upper body.

"You OK?" Marty asked. His mouth went dry after saying it. "Please say
something, Pete. Please!" he said to himself.

He realized that Peter was still struggling, drawing deep breaths, but the
recovery of his lungs was clear, if not the return of his strength. He
regretted that perhaps a bit of his own panic leaked out, but decided it
didn't matter and just focused on supporting Peter's weight and listening
to him breathe.

"I'm...sorry..."

"No need, Pete," he interrupted. Take it easy for a second. Just take it
easy. Remember, I'm here, OK? I won't let anything happen to you."

Just then a waiter came up behind Marty. He barely heard him until he had
bent over and tried to talk to both of them. "Sir, is he OK? Can we do
something?" His voice had the feeling of urgency, almost emergency, that he
definitely didn't want to transfer to Peter.

Not wanting to turn his head and risk pulling the support from underneath
Peter, he just responded without even looking up. "No, he's OK, just needs
little air. Maybe we'll take a walk outside in a second, to get him some
fresh air. But he's OK, for now, but thanks."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Yes, he'll be OK...just needs to catch his breath...I'll give you a holler
if we need anything, OK?" he replied. Peter's hold on his arm had relaxed
to the point that his hand was now just resting there. The relaxation was a
good sign, but the relative limpness of Peter's entire body was something
new to contend with.

"Actually, you could you bring us some water, that would help. Ice water if
you can do that."

"Right away!" he replied, probably as glad to avoid more involvement as
Marty was glad to be rid of him.

"How are you doing up there," he said, looking straight ahead into Peter's
chest, seeing his striped tie hanging down from his neck. Without moving
his head, he reached up with both hands and loosened the tie along with
releasing the top button of Peter's shirt.

He just shook his head in response. "I...I hope that I don't make your life
too hard..."

Raising his hand, he gently pushed Peter's face back. "You've made me the
happiest guy in the world tonight, Peter Kovar. The happiest guy in the
world. And by the way, you remember what we promised each other at times
like this, right?"

Peter smiled weakly, but gave a firmer squeeze to his hands. "Yea, I
do...thanks...and I'm happy, too," he said, his small smile a herculean
effort based on what he had just been through.

						***

"Pop, could I talk to you about something?" Peter asked, taking a seat on
the couch. His Pop was in the comfy lounge chair scanning his tablet.  Next
to him, on the sidetable, was a picture of their entire family from last
Christmas.

"Sure...Is everything OK? He said, looking up from the glowing surface, the
office email inbox apparent to Peter as suddenly turned the device away
from himself.

"Yea, it is Pop. It really is. But there is one thing that I thought I'd
like to ask you, if it's OK." He was sitting on the edge of the couch, not
really settling back into it, but keeping himself on the edge.

"You're sure I shouldn't be worrying," he asked, a lilt in is voice trying
to mask his instant anxiety.

"It's all OK, Pop, don't worry. It's all OK," Peter responded, sliding over
on the couch to be closer to his Pop. He finally rested his back against
the seat.

"Can you hear me OK," Mike asked.

"Oh, yea, I can hear you fine," he said as he settled into his new
position. "This is a bit better." Just after he said this Reese jumped onto
the couch with him, putting his head in Peter's lap.

"Then what is it, son? What can I answer?"

Peter gently stroked the dog as he spoke, short little strokes with his
right hand on the top of the head. "It's kind of a tough question Pop, and
I'm not exactly sure how to ask it. But you're the best person to ask, I
think."

"Yes, go ahead. I'll do the best I can, if I can even answer anything. But
go ahead."

Peter paused for a moment before going on, fidgeting in his seat as he
slipped his other hand around Reese's legs, partly to give him more
attention but partly to just distract himself.

"Last night, when Marty and I went out it was all great. He asked me to
marry him, and you, know it was like a dream, it really was. The only thing
was that I kind of...messed it up."

"Messed it up? How could anything mess it up? I sure don't think that Marty
thought that. He's been beaming all day."

"I...I had an episode, Pop. I don't know what happened, I'm not sure. But I
started to get so, I guess, excited, that I started to hyperventilate. I
couldn't catch my breath at all."

"He's seen it happen before, hasn't he."

"Only once."

"Can I ask when? If you don't want to tell me, that's OK," his Pop
responded. He was now very focused on Peter, who was continuing to
nervously pet Reece, his eyes not focused on him.

"Well...it was actually the time that we first really talked to each
other...about us. He told me..." Peter also thought of that image of Marty
kissing him while he slept, but decided not to go into the details.

"...well, I he told me something that was really, well... I guess I'll just
I just got so excited," he continued, feeling clumsy about how he was
evading a direct answer.

"What did he do? How did he react?"

"You know, I was so worked up, I could hardly tell, at least at first. But
I remember him just being in front of me. I think that he was kneeling, or
crouched down, something like that. I know he was kind of below, kneeling
on the ground and looking up at me. And I remember him just, like stroking
me, telling me it would be OK. He didn't look freaked out or anything like
that...or at least he didn't seem as freaked out I was," he went on,
getting a slight smile from his Pop.

"Anyway," Peter added, not wanting to lose his thought, "I wanted to ask
you. I mean tell, you...I jeeze, I don't know how to exactly say this,
but..."

"...that you think that you're going to be a burden on him," his Pop cut
in.

He stopped stroking Reece for moment and looked back up at his
Pop. "Yea. That's it. I mean, everything is so great. I'm so darn happy,
and I think he is too. I mean, it's just...I hate to think what I could do
to him."

"I thought you'd understand, Pop," he finally said out loud, turning his
head back down at the dog, who looked back up at him panting, craving more
attention.

His Dad smiled, then reached over and put his hand on Peter's arm. "you're
right, I think I do understand," he replied, then sat back down in his
chair, looking up at the ceiling.

"You don't know this Peter, I've never told anyone this, but in college I
tried to break up with your Dad over the exact same feeling."

"You did?" Peter replied, his eyes opening wide. Maybe it was his own
naiveté, or just willful ignorance, but he had just never thought of a
time when his Dads weren't together. It's like people don't think of their
parents as anything but their parents and they never had, or could have
had, an independent existence.

His Pop continued, but in a much less confident voice, like recalling a
nightmare or bad memory that he could hardly face again. "Yeah, it was not
long after we first met. It would take too long to go into all the details,
but I tried to break up with him for the very same reason that you are
talking about now. I thought that I would be a burden to him, and make his
life shit. I felt so strongly about him that I felt like I couldn't dump my
life and...problems... onto him. I couldn't make him live through my
epilepsy along with me."

Peter noticed that his Pop was still looking at the ceiling but had now
folded his hands in front of himself, as if he was getting cold. "Except
for watching you struggle for breath as a baby, it was the worst moment of
my life..."

"I...I jeeze, Peter, I didn't mean to bring that up," he said, exhaling
deeply out of frustration with himself as he sat up in his chair. "I'm
sorry about that."

Peter's hand immediately went to his Dad's leg, "no worries, Pop. I don't
remember, but it's actually kind of nice to hear."

"Well, I shouldn't have said that anyway, son, but at least it gives you
some sense of what had happened, at both times in my life,' he replied as
he squeezed his son's hand in return.

"But getting back to that time back in college..." he continued, telling
Peter how he hardly ate for a week, couldn't study, couldn't focus,
couldn't do anything.

"Until your Dad came over, and forced the issue. I mean, literally, forced
the issue. He basically pushed his way into my apartment." For the first
time during this talk, Peter saw a grin on his Pop's face, though he had
returned to looking at the ceiling.

"He had to pull conversation out of me, I was practically catatonic. Even
now, I can practically hear him speaking word-for-word.  I can't remember
other things, but I can remember his words." He also went back to folding
his arms in front of himself, but paused and continued staring at the
ceiling.

Peter was going to ask him if he was OK, but held off for just a moment, to
see if he'd pick up on his own.

"I'm not sure I have any dramatic revelations here. I think in the end,
what I remember most was that ...um...we just cared about each other so
much that we had to simply figure out ways to deal with it and let our
lives go on. But together and not alone."

"It's also affected us both, I think, in one other important way, which
kind of took a while to surface. But that was that there was never anything
big enough or important enough to get us to be upset with each other. If we
disagreed on something, we never let it get out of control or affect how we
felt or thought about each other. We always assumed that the other had the
best intentions."

"And we always kiss before we go to bed. Always." Then he sat back up in
his chair and looked at Peter again. "And if I give you any one dumb piece
of advice, that would be it. Always go to sleep knowing you're together."

He adjusted himself, in the chair, sitting up straighter and looking back
at Peter as if in a more normal conversation. "You know, when Marty and I
are working in the garage, he often surprises me when he talks about you."

"Surprises you? What do you mean?"

His Pop smiled. "I've known you your whole life Peter, I'm your Pop. But he
says things about you that I never realized, or noticed. He's just so aware
of who you are, more than even a parent can appreciate," he said, his voice
somewhat wistful. "He understands your rhythms and moods, maybe even more
than you do yourself. He knows when you'll be hungry, what you might want
to eat, if you should take nap..."

"He's really big on that, Pop. He thinks, and he's right of course, that I
need to get a lot of sleep and all. I guess it's stuff that I wouldn't pay
much attention to. But he does," he said, finishing his Pop's thought.

"And you should listen to him, and I think you do. Because he's looking out
for you in ways that you probably wouldn't do for yourself. Like your Dad
does for me, so I know how it feels," he said.

Peter thought his Pop would continue in the light tone, but suddenly his
mood changed.

"Peter, if something ever happened to you, something bad, he would
be...he...would have a hard time making it through. As you know, you're not
just doing this for yourself. You're doing it for him, too."

"I've tried not to be so...how should I say..." Peter searched for the
right word.

"Reckless?" his Pop filled in.

Sighing in response, he shook his head up and down. "Yeah, that's the
word. I've tried to change that."

"You have Peter. And he knows it. And he knows why, too, so he appreciates
your struggle...Gosh, I know how it is, you want to do everything, even
though you rationally know that you can't or at least shouldn't."

"By the way," he said, seeming to change the subject. "Do you know that I
used to ride a motorcycle?"

"You did?" Peter stared back at his Pop in disbelief.

"Yeah. I thought it was actually kind of cool, and great with gas and all
that. But I could tell it worried your Dad. Worried him a lot. He would
never have directly asked me to stop. But I knew it, and had to ask myself
if the fun I got out of it was worth the worry that I caused your Dad. The
answer was clear."

"So you just stopped?"

"Yup. Cold Turkey. At that time there was no Craigslist or stuff like that,
so I just took an ad out in the classified of the school paper and sold
it. It was inconvenient at first, but that didn't matter. I was really glad
I did it."

Mike sat back in his chair, his eyes going up toward the ceiling
again. "The night I sold it, I came home and just told him it was gone. I
actually didn't say anything before that."

"What did he do?"

"He didn't move for moment, didn't say anything. He put his hand on my
neck, and squeezed, then he just whispered in my ear. `Thanks, Pup.'"

"It's one of the few time since I've known him that I thought he was going
to cry.' He paused for a moment, obviously caught up in the thought.

"I knew that he worried about it, but I had no idea how much. Gosh, he was
really scared. It was just my bike to me, it was fun and all, I kind of
liked driving it around. And like I said, it was really cheap on gas," he
said, with a slight chuckle.

"But for your Dad, it was just a nightmare to worry about it, especially if
I had a seizure while I was out on the road. And he was right. My only
regret after that was that I hadn't gotten rid of it earlier. I would have
trashed it in an instant if I had known."

"That's how I feel about a lot of things with Marty," Peter said. "Gosh,
when I got pneumonia that first Christmas I brought him home, he took such
good care of me and all. But I felt horrible about what I put him
through. I knew I was getting sick, and felt worse and worse because I
didn't want him to worry about me."

"I noticed your changed things after that, at least a few things," his Pop
replied.

"Well, I wish I could say that made a magical transformation, but I did
what I thought was important. I only wish I had done it all sooner, it
would have really saved him some grief. But over time I've gotten my
exercise regime going, try to get enough sleep, and stress out as little as
possible if I can help it. And I also try to not rely so much on the
hearing aid, too, seeing if I can strengthen my hearing as much as
possible. I'm not sure it works, but I want to at least feel like I'm doing
something."

"But you know, Pop, he never bugs me about any of this," Peter said, then
thought for moment and corrected himself. "Well, I can't say that's always
true. If I get too involved in something, like a book or website or some
school project, he'll `remind' me that I need to go to bed, stuff like
that," he said, smiling at the thought of it.

"I know how it feels," his Pop replied.